Twowaters
by Dannaron
Summary: Templar Ibram has been called to the tiny, inconsequential village of Twowaters. Brief oneshot.


The village of Twowaters was a place of no relevance to anywhere, that described its major feature in its own name. It was one of the towns which existed because in almost any place where people can live, they will. The only things that existed where farms for the peasants, a monthly market, and the ubiquitous chantry.

It was not on the request of the farms or the market that had brought Ser Ibram here.

The Templar removed his helmet to look around the town. The titular two waters met in the square, and flowed onwards from there, its progress sluggish from the silt and refuse of the towns upstream. The Chantry say, or rather squatted, on the only high part of the village, that was so high Ibram was sure that it had been man-made.

If you had nothing to be proud of, you were proud of what you had.

And if you had a job to do, than it was easiest to do it directly. Ibram made a bee-line for the Chantry and its hill.

There was only one villager in the street: a young girl, who could not have been much older than six, cowering in the shadow of a hovel and crying. She looked and right at him. Ibram walked past her. The concerns of the child were not of his.

The chanter, whose name was Stefans according to the missive he'd received, was standing by the Chantry board, and staring into the distance with a gaze of such tranquillity that Ibram had not seen before. He nodded to the brother as he passed: the man made no recognition that he had seen him. Close to, Ibram noted that he was still chanting: "Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the peacemakers."

Ibram turned to look at the man. The brother still had not noticed. Ibram put his helmet back on, and opened the Chantry doors.

The inside of the chantry revealed that only the floor was made of the traditional stone: the rest of the building seemed wood, like an old drinking hall. The pews were cramped, leaving only a narrow aisle leading to a small, wooden, altar. The sound of Ibram's heavy footfalls on the stone floor was the loudest in the room. The other was the sound of chanting. This one was more coherent.

"For lo, all the trees and beasts of the world were of my making, as were all the laws. I shall give my rule to man, that through it he may better himself. And by this law may peace be brought to the earth, and a new paradise made of the world."

The Revered Mother was kneeling before the altar, lightly rocking back and forth during the afternoon ablutions. The last sunlight through the cheap, unstained window set her robes ablaze, as though there really was a bright, burning sun stitched onto her back.

Ser Ibram approached her and waited respectfully until the segment of the chant had finished. The reverend mother slowly rose, blessing herself, and then turned around. "Ah, hello there. You must excuse me, I was in prayer."  
"I saw mother. All is well. I am Ser Ibram. Here to respond to the request that was written by you for support from the Cathedral." The Reverend Mother tilted her head onto one side. "I see. I must say I have no recollection of having any missive sent to Denerim. Are you sure that you have arrived in the right place, good ser?"

Ibram did not respond for a beat, instead simply looking at the Revered Mother. "Is this Twowaters?"  
"That is the name of the town, yes."  
"Then I am in the right place."

The Revered Mother turned from him and took two steps away, her hand on her chin. "I see. Well, I'm afraid there must be some sort of devilry occurring here. I do not know how anything with my name could have been sent to Denerim, but I can assure you that it was not by my hand."

Again, Ibram waited before responding. The silence dragged on between the two. "I see. Do you know who would perpetrate such a scheme?"

"The only ones with access to my seal would be Brother Stefans outside and myself. I suppose it is possible that he stole my seal while I was not looking… But such a thing would be blasphemy! To write without the words of the chant would be to violate his most sacred oath!" The Revered Mother turned and walked back to Ibram. "Although I did not send for you, it seems the Chantry does indeed have a use for you as yet. I implore you, as Revered Mother of this village, to take that man into custody and show him the Maker's Justice!"

For a third time, the echoes of the last thing said had faded before Ibram responded. "Of course, Mother. To violate an oath for such a simple thing is the grandest of crimes. I shall do so forthwith, and with your blessing, return him to Denerim immediately."  
"Ser Ibram, for all your apparent slowness, you are a true agent of the Chantry. Maker watch over you."

Ibram turned and marched back out of the chantry, his footsteps echoing across the hard stones as he went.

As soon as he opened the doors to leave he found the crying girl from before standing directly in front of him. Dirt was smudged on her face, and she wiped her nose on her sleeve. Ibram closed the doors behind him and snuck a look at the Chanting Brother. His mantra was still continuing. Ibram knelt to be on eye-level with the girl. She took a deep breath. "Please Ser. My brother told me to play hide-and-seek. But I don't want him to find me. You have to hide me!"

"Do you believe in the Maker?" Ibram replied. The girl sobbed.

"Please, Ser! I have to-"

"Do you accept the Maker's truth?"

"Yes ser, I do."

Ibram reached out and placed his hand on the girl's forehead. "Magic is made to serve man, not to rule him.-"

"Oh, ser, you have found my sister! I really must thank you."

A scrawny calf of a boy, probably no more than seventeen years old, walked up the hill behind the young girl and towards the Chantry. Ibram looked up and the girl squealed, running behind his legs. The Templar got to his feet.

"It seems she does not wish to speak with you."

"She gets too wound up on these little games. The boy said, and grinned apologetically. "It is only fun, after all."

"I think that your brother and I should talk for a moment, young girl." Ibram said, taking a step forwards. "No! Ser, don't let him talk!" The girl shrieked.

The boy grinned again and raised his arm: a long gash was scored down the side of it, and was very slowly oozing blood. "She does get worked up. I apologise, Ser Templar, but it seems you were called out here on a false alarm. Wouldn't you agree?"

Ibram, as usual, spent some time before answering. His head twitched, compulsively, to the side twice. Then he nodded. "Too worked up. I would agree."

"It is a shame that you were called out here for no cause." The boy went on, his voice dropping into a much lower frequency which was the only way that he managed to be heard over his sister's sudden wailing.

"No cause." Ser Ibram repeated.

"But I'm sure your higher-ups in Denerim will understand."  
"Will understand."

"But only if you hurry back to them. There is nothing here that is of any interest to the Chantry. Best return."

"I found nothing of interest, and I shall return." Ibram shook his head, as if clearing a thought. "Thankyou for your help, citizen. Maker watch over you."

The boy nodded. "May he watch over us all." He said, and smiled.

The girl tried to grab hold of Ibram's arm and pulled tight, but the Templar shook her loose without a second thought, knocking her backwards into the dust as he walked past her brother, back down the hill.

"Now, sister, shall we play a different game?" The boy said, walking up, "Perhaps-"

There was a shout, and a terrible noise like ripping cloth, but far louder. The boy glanced down, as if surprised, as the tip of a sword had burst through his chest. He turned his head to look at Sir Ibram: the knight's helmeted face held no expression. He grunted, and pushed forwards, driving the sword through the man up to its hilt.

The boy looked down at the blade again. "Oh." He said, "But I just wanted…"

The Templar twisted the sword slightly to loosen it, and then put one of his heavy boots on the boy's back and pulled it back out. The boy collapsed, hitting the dirt hard. Ibram checked the blade of the sword, and his thumb and forefinger to wipe the blood off it before sheathing it again. The girl crawled over the body of her brother and bowed her head into his shoulder.

Ibram rested a gauntleted hand on her shoulder briefly. "Get to the Chantry, girl. They will look after you." He said in a monotone. "The threat here is dealt with."


End file.
